


Pare

by ImagineMystrade



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 07:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3600864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImagineMystrade/pseuds/ImagineMystrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg needs a love life, a pumpkin and a clue - not necessarily in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pare

**Author's Note:**

> Fall!Imagine your OTP scenario where they are shopping for a Halloween pumpkin and both reach for it at the same time.
> 
>  
> 
> AN: This should have been posted for Halloween and I messed up. I really hate the ending so I'm reworking it and will post that in a week or two. I hope to start writing more prompts regularly.

“Sorry, sir! I didn’t mean to hit you!”

 

Greg Lestrade winced at the throbbing in his instep, but managed to smile at the person staring up at him.  Beneath dark curls, the boy was all blue eyes set in a narrow face of uncommon seriousness for someone so young. He was swaddled in a jumper that looked several sizes too large for him and he seemed to be retreating into it, turtle-like, possibly anticipating a scolding or worse from the stranger whose foot he’d just kicked.

 

At Greg’s feet was the object at which the little boy likely had been aiming: a small football shaped and colored like a pumpkin.

 

The things littered the stone floor of “Jack’s Pumpkin Shack” with a large netted goal at the other end of the large shop. Kicking one of the pumpkin-footballs into the net from a certain distance would result in winning a prize of unspecified “awesomeness” that was hinted at obliquely in the signs posted around the shop.  The place was so packed, however, with shoppers and with footballs that Greg couldn’t quite make out how anyone would be able to sort out the winners.

 

But seeing children rushing about, kicking the small objects, laughing and screaming while their guardians quietly slunk amidst the stalls, Greg had to wonder if the whole thing was just something the shop owner had dreamed up to drum up business and give his customers’ kids something with which to occupy themselves that didn’t have to do with putting their hands on his pristine produce.

 

“It’s all right. You’ve got good form. Probably could’ve gotten that in the net, or near it.” Greg smiled broadly, hoping to convey that he wasn’t annoyed. “Play footie a lot with your friends?”

 

The boy shook his dark head.

 

“No, sir. Dad says I’m too young. He’ll let me when I’m eight, but I’m only six now.”

 

“Well, that’s not so long to wait. Only two years.” Greg gave the boy an encouraging smile. “You’ll be bigger and an even better striker, I’ll bet. I was just about that age when I joined the Under-10s.”

 

Greg rolled one of the pumpkin-balls up onto his foot, quickly alternating between bouncing the ball on the top of his foot and his instep, which wasn’t hurting as much anymore.

 

The boy’s eyes were enormous as he took in the display, and he grinned in disbelief when Greg rolled the ball up his shin and then to his knee.

 

“Wow! I wish _I_ could do that!”

 

The admiration in the boy’s voice made Greg glow with pride. _Still got it, Lestrade …_

“You’ll get there, with some practice.” Greg rolled the ball down his leg and onto the floor.  “The trick is –”

 

“– _Hamish_. There you are.”

 

Greg saw the boy almost gulp at the stern, feminine voice that wafted above a knot of shoppers passing by. In another second, the crowd cleared and Greg almost gulped, as well, but for an entirely different reason.

 

Walking swiftly toward them was a woman of almost intimidating beauty dressed impeccably in a grey coat that hung open to reveal an equally impeccable suit. Her hair was dark, but not quite as dark as the boy’s, and a deep frown made her eyes spark dangerously. In one hand was a shopping bag and in the other she gripped one of those BlackBerry things that Greg had never quite gotten the hang of.

 

Greg reckoned the woman to be in her mid-20s or a bit older. Not too young to be the boy’s mother, but he didn’t look much like her, if she was. Not that it meant anything. Abi didn’t look much like him, but despite everything that had gone on between him and Lana, Greg knew Abigail was every inch his daughter.

 

“Hamish, what were you told about wandering off? Your uncle isn’t going to be happy about this.” The woman barely glanced at Greg. “To say nothing of your fathers.”

 

Greg blinked. _Fathers? As in … plural? More than one?_

“I didn’t mean to! I was trying to get the pumpkin football in the net and win a prize. And then I kicked him,” the boy jerked his head toward Greg, “and I thought I hurt him bad, but I didn’t, and he was showing me footie tricks, and –”

 

“You _kicked_ him?” She sounded half-horrified, half-fascinated. “Hamish!”

 

“It was an accident!”

 

Greg thought it best to step in at that point, as the boy seemed to be shrinking even more inside his jumper and at the rate he was going, the collar would be over his head in another moment. With the ‘fathers’ bit, he wasn’t quite sure who the woman was, but obviously the boy knew her and was somewhat anxious in her company.

 

“He didn’t see my foot behind the little football. We were just talking, and, uh …”

 

Greg floundered as she looked him over, assessing him with a lancet-like gaze that made him shiver and not in the good way. Suddenly, he could understand why the kid was so nervous. There was something indefinably terrifying about the woman, and she let glimpses of it show in her eyes. More than that, she _knew_ that she was doing so. Greg reckoned that a bird that beautiful had to build up a bit of a thick skin to deflect the constant stream of clumsy come-ons and whistles from prats all over.

 

It dawned on him that if this was the boy’s mother, she might not have been best pleased to see her son chatting up a stranger. He could understand that. If he’d found his Abi in the company of some unknown bloke, he imagined he might do more than aim a frozen glare at him. The papers were full of stories of perverts and missing children, and Greg had more than enough up close and personal interaction with those sort of cases.

 

But still, he _was_ one of the good guys, after all. Maybe that should count for something?

 

Greg was vaguely aware that in reality, probably not, but maybe his warrant card would buy the boy out of a swat on the bum.

 

“It’s all right, really,” he said, trying for a confident smile. “We were just, ah … I’m a police officer, you know. Scotland Yard. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.”

 

He held out one hand, his other fumbling at his back pocket for his wallet. There were very few things showing his warrant card couldn’t fix, though he tried not to resort to that trick too often.

 

The woman’s expression softened just a bit into a sort of indulgent disdain, much like someone watching a neighbor’s slothlike pet do a trick.

 

“Are you?” A small smile curved her lips and she made no move to take the proffered hand. “How interesting.”

 

Greg’s own grin faded and he slowly brought his hand down.

 

_Right. That went over well._

But Hamish perked up, his eyes going even wider.

 

“A policeman? Really? My Papa –”

 

“Hamish, come along. We’ve taken up enough of the nice man’s time.” The woman’s voice was surprisingly empty of sarcasm as she took the boy’s hand. “We _are_ shopping for _your_ party, after all, and the shops are closing soon.”

 

“Yes, Miss Anthea.” Hamish seemed resigned to his fate. “Please don’t tell Dad or Papa or Uncle Myc that I was bad. Papa might not let me help with his experiments anymore.”

 

The woman shook her head and sighed, looking down at the boy with a scowl that managed to somehow blend exasperation with affection.

 

“You weren’t _bad_ , Hamish. Just no more going off on your own, all right? And I think your ‘Uncle Myc’ is going to have words with your Papa about these ‘experiments.’ You’re too young.”

 

“But Papa said that when he was my age, Uncle Myc let him use those firecrackers in Grandmummy’s rose bushes, and …”

 

Greg couldn’t hear the rest of the reply, which probably was for the best. He had a bad feeling about where _that_ story was going.

 

He did smile when Hamish looked round and gave him a bravely cheerful wave before he and his minder were swallowed up by the crowd.

 

Greg stared after them for a moment. “Dad” and “Papa.” So the “fathers” thing was not something he’d misheard. And “Miss” Anthea? Not the lad’s mother at all. The nanny, then?

 

He remembered when he and Lana had discussed getting a nanny for Abi. Lana had been adamant that the person picked not be young _or_ pretty, stating that she had no desire to feel like a frump in her own home or watch her husband ogle some “hot young thing.” Although it became a moot point when Lana had decided to return to teaching only part-time until Abi was old enough for school, Greg had done his damndest to reassure her that nothing of the sort would happen – he only had eyes for his smoking-hot wife, and no “young thing” of any level of attractiveness would be able to turn _his_ head.

 

Thinking about how soon she’d moved her toyboy into the flat after the separation, Greg grimly wondered if that had been Lana’s own guilty conscience speaking. Still, he could just imagine what might have happened if he’d gone against her wishes and hired someone like “Miss Anthea.” Greg could almost see the smoke coming out of Lana’s ears.

 

He briefly relished the image before sighing himself back into the moment. Before his detour with young Hamish, he’d been a man on a mission, and it had yet to be accomplished. And, he thought with another sigh as he looked around the barren shelves, it was unlikely to be accomplished at “Jack’s Pumpkin Shack.” None of the namesake item seemed to be left, and a pumpkin was just what Greg needed to find.

 

Greg threaded through a crowd of people trying to get the last bits of whatever they could grab, and young children were trying their hands – or feet, at least – at getting one of the pumpkin-footballs into the nets at the other end.

 

Greg gave a cursory look around, but he didn’t see Hamish or “Miss Anthea,” either. He hoped the boy wouldn’t get into any trouble. With a name like “Hamish,” he likely had enough problems.

 

Exiting the shop, Greg took a fortifying breath of fresh air before joining the throng hunting among the stalls and shops of the street market. He enjoyed these markets that descended on the edge of Surrey at this time of year, filled, as they were, with stalls bearing seasonal goodies and gifts and more elaborate pop-up shops that were like Jack’s Pumpkin Shack – little more than huge tents that managed to still have the solid and imposing appearance of a regular shop in the city.

 

It was a good time, billed as “fun for the whole family.” That was the problem, as far as Greg was concerned. He was a family of one now, and attending this sort of thing was a little hard, as a result.

 

Seeing all the skeletons and jack o’ lanterns and masks and costumes, and excited kids and wearily indulgent parents made him wish Abi were here with him, but it wasn’t his weekend to have her. Lana had been snippy about that, remarking that he’d have their daughter on Halloween weekend and the area in which he lived was not exactly teeming with children.

 

That was true, but it was beside the point, and Greg didn’t let her jibes get to him. This would be his second Halloween with Abi since the divorce, and he was determined that she have a good time on what she said was her “second favorite holiday next to her birthday.”

 

He was going to be prepared. No excuses, no regrets and no fucking up. He wanted to avoid any repeat of _last_ year’s debacle.

 

Greg stopped in front of a kiosk decorated with fairy lights and velvet pumpkin cutouts. He looked up at the sign hanging above doorway, his gaze resting on the blocky letters that spelled out the shop’s name: “Good Gourd.”

 

He snickered. The pun was awful but it was a worth a chuckle, and anyway, he could see pumpkins lined from largest to smallest along a back shelf.

 

His face lit up as he spotted one smack in the middle. Reflected in the fairy lights as it was, it seemed to almost shimmer. At least, Greg _hoped_ the glittery effect was the work of the lights, and not some sort of strange pesticide.

 

The pumpkin was medium-sized with deep ribs and smooth, unblemished skin. It was the same warm orange color throughout and it sat on a flattish bottom, not tipping to one side or another.

 

Greg licked his lips absently, remembering the pumpkins of his youth – the flat bottomed ones were always ace for carving, not so much for eating. He briefly worried that it was one of those waxwork jobs made up to look like the real thing and entice people into the tent, but when he saw a bit of discoloration along the stem, he relaxed.

 

It _was_ real. It was beautifully, tantalizingly _real_.

 

He wasn’t sure why this pumpkin hadn’t been scooped up already, but he wasn’t about to overthink it. If anyone was due for a bit of decent luck, it was him. Finding the perfect Halloween pumpkin wasn’t on the level of winning Euro Millions, but he’d take it.

 

He hurried inside, hoping his eagerness didn’t tip off his fellow shoppers. A squat, white-haired man that Greg assumed was the proprietor was at the other end of the shop in front of a makeshift till, counting out change. The man looked up as Greg entered and give  him a broad smile.

 

Greg smiled back as he reached out for his prize, thinking that maybe the day wasn’t going to be a total loss. A split second later, a second thought entered his head that the pumpkin sure felt different than he’d imagined. It was warm, weirdly smooth, and-

 

Wait. _Warm_?

 

Greg’s head whipped around and he saw that he wasn’t touching the pumpkin at all. He was touching a _hand_. A hand that was attached, thank goodness, to a person. That was the good news.

 

The bad news was, that hand was also on the pumpkin Greg had his eye on. _His_ pumpkin.

 

“I beg your pardon,” came a very polite voice.

 

Greg glanced up. His jaw dropped.

 

There was further good news, apparently. The owner of the hand was fit as _fuck_.

 

He was tall, dressed in a dark gray overcoat that Greg was pretty sure cost more than his pension was worth, and his face wore the sort of chiseled nobility usually seen in old paintings. Greg could easily imagine that when this man talked, people leaned closer to him, nodding in agreement, no matter what they actually thought.

 

“I beg your pardon,” the polite voice said again. “I was wondering if I might have my hand back?”

 

“What?”

 

Greg looked down again and nearly pissed his pants. His hand was atop the handsome stranger’s, both of them apparently having laid a hand on the tantalizing pumpkin at the same time.

 

“Oh, bloody hell! Sorry!” blurted Greg, snatching his hand away as if it had been burned. “I, uh, was going for it. The pumpkin, that is. I didn’t see you there.”

 

Greg was beet red, especially when he spotted the golden wedding band on the man’s finger that glinted mockingly at him.

 

_Wait but it’s on the right hand. Maybe that means he’s not …? Nah, it probably only means he got dressed in a hurry and put it on the wrong hand._

Greg wasn’t too confident in those thoughts. That probably wasn’t it at all. This man didn’t seem to have a hair out of place, and _oh_ he was gingery, too, talking of hair. Greg had a weakness for gingery types. And freckled types.

 

Greg was dreamily taking note of the swirl of dots across the other man’s nose and was only barely aware that he was speaking. He had nice lips, Greg thought in a haze. Not too plump, but not thin either; elegant and streamlined, like the rest of him.

 

“… Yours?”

 

“Hm?” Greg forced himself to focus. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. It’s, uh, a bit loud in here, don’t you think?”

 

Greg grinned nervously as a small cough from the proprietor broke what had been utter silence in the shop.

 

The stranger smiled. “I was asking you if this was _your_ pumpkin?”

 

Greg looked down, suddenly remembering what had brought him into “Good Gourd” in the first place.

 

“Oh, well, no. I mean, I was hoping it _would_ be. I was hunting one. They’re all out everywhere else I’ve tried.”

 

A sinking feeling hit Greg suddenly as he saw the man’s hand still planted proprietarily on the pumpkin.

 

“Is it _yours_ then? Bugger.” Greg sighed. “Figured it was too good to be true.”

 

“I’m not entirely sure that it is. My pumpkin, that is,” the man said. “I was trying to get the shopkeeper’s attention, but he’s been too occupied in trying to discover which of his employees has been helping themselves to the proceeds.”

 

Greg looked around. The shop owner was still in front of the register, darkly frowning and counting a pile of pound notes.

 

“What? You mean someone’s been dipping in the till?”

 

“Unfortunately, yes. As this shop opened a week ago, the list of possible culprits is short, but they all had equal access and opportunity, so it might be some time before he discovers the identity of the thief,” said the man in a casual tone. “Hopefully it won’t turn out to be the one he secretly fancies. It took him a long time to work up the courage to chat her up.”

 

“Do you know this bloke then?”

 

The man shook his head. “Not in the slightest.”

 

Greg looked around again. The shop owner had stopped counting, and was looking forlorn and dejected.

 

“Ah. I was afraid of that.” The man made a tsk-ing noise. “Ah, well. Plenty of fish in the sea.”

 

Greg slowly turned toward him. "How did you know …”

 

“It’s not closing time for the market by a long margin, and there are still a great many shoppers, so counting out the takings at this stage is a bit premature.” The well-dressed man spoke in a slightly softer voice. “Openly counting the money as he’s doing might attract an unsavory sort, and any shop owner with a modicum of sense wouldn’t do such a thing unless they felt it was an emergency. Agreed?”

 

“Uh? Oh, yeah. I guess so.” Greg nodded. “Actually, I noticed him counting money when I came in. I thought he was making change.”

 

“Ah, but you _did_ notice it.” The man looked pleased. “So might have someone much more unsavory. And armed. It is foolish to leave oneself open to robbery in that fashion. My guess is that the till has been light on consecutive days. The first time it happened he wrote it off as a mistake. The second time, he decided that it might also be a mistake as well, but his antennae, so to speak, was raised. It has happened a third time, and he knows there is no mistake. The fact that it has happened twice before and he was half-expecting it to happen again, and yet this is, by my count, the tenth time he’s counted over the same notes indicates that he is hoping beyond hope that he is incorrect. That suggests that the most likely culprit is someone he likes a great deal. He’s unmarried and has eyed up quite a few young women in the short time I’ve been in this store, so I assume – and I admit that it is only an assumption – that there is a comely young lady in his employ that he was hoping to get to know better, and who he is now thinking might be the likely culprit.”

 

Greg’s mouth dropped open as he sneaked another glance over to the end of the shop. The shopkeeper was on his mobile now, frowning heavily and talking animatedly into the receiver. The large pile of money was out of sight.

 

“Sacking someone over the phone can be a very trying experience. I prefer email. Much neater, and at least I can screen out the expletives.” The man smiled suddenly. “Now, about this pumpkin?”

 

Greg’s jaw was still flapping in the wind. The shop owner had finished his call, angrily it looked like. His cheeks were bright red and a slight sheen of perspiration was on his forehead.

 

“Uh, would you hold that thought a minute?” Greg said, in half a daze. “Just a minute.”

 

He didn’t wait for a reply. Walking quickly to the shop owner, Greg gave a short nod and unearthed his warrant card.

 

“D.I. Greg Lestrade, sir,” he said, watching the man’s eyes go huge. “Is everything all right? D’you need any sort of … assistance?”

  
The man gaped. “What? She – she _rang_ you? What's she on about, if anyone should be calling the police it should've been me! But … she said she’d pay the money back if I didn’t have her up on charges!”

 

Greg’s neck was hot. “Did she now? And you’re satisfied with that?”

 

The man shrugged. “It was only 50 quid. I mean, it’s not right that she took it, but if she pays it back, there’s no harm done, I suppose?”

 

Greg stared at the man. He was probably around his own age, going a little thin on top. Not tall or short, not fat or thin. He had dark eyes with darker circles under them. He looked exhausted. And lonely.

 

Greg was certain that he’d worn that same, shopworn, exhausted look on many an occasion during the time he’d tried to persuade Lana to give the marriage another shot even as he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

 

He had a wild desire to tell the shopkeeper to turn the girl in, teach her a lesson, but he kept it in. For one thing, if the bloke didn’t want to report a crime, then that was that. It wasn’t as if theft and robbery were in his line anyway. And for another, the bloke would learn, just as he did, the hard way. And well, yes, it was “only” 50 quid. This time. Give a person who didn’t deserve it too many chances, and …

 

“I just rang off with her. She seemed in a right state. Maybe, she had a uhm, a guilty conscience?” The man looked uncertain. “How did she know to ring _you_ , Inspector? Are you related to her or something?”

 

“No. Just had a hunch something was up.” Greg tried not to look in the direction of the well-dressed bloke. “Anyway, be more careful who you hire next time. And don’t count money out in the open like that. It can attract the wrong sort.”

 

The man ducked his head in embarrassed acknowledgment. “Too right, sir. Sorry, sir.”

 

Greg just sighed. He knew that look. The bloke would do it again. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but someone would catch his eye and he’d start thinking with the wrong head, and, yeah. He couldn't be too disappointed in the man. He'd been down that road before, himself. He learned the hard way. Maybe that was the only way you could learn when it came to matters of the heart.

Eager to get back to Mr. Dishy and Dapper, and ask just how he’d reckoned so much out so quickly, Greg turned away from the shop owner –

 

And stopped dead, staring in shock and dismay at the interior of the shop.

 

It was another good news/bad news situation.

 

The good news: The _pumpkin_ of his dreams was still sitting on the shelf where he’d left it, still shimmering, still perfect, still waiting to be scooped up.

 

The bad news: The _man_ of his dreams, however, had vanished.


End file.
